“We watched a film and then we went to bed.”
“What film?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” She shrugs. “Goodfellas. Edwin loves those sorts of film.”
Then her head jerks as she realizes what she’s said. “Loved.” She puts her head in her hands for a moment, breathes in, out. “We went to bed after it finished. James came in around midnight, I think. I didn’t hear him come in, though—I was exhausted.”
I open my mouth to comment on a child his age being allowed to wander round London on his own at midnight, and stop myself. For all I know it’s perfectly normal. “Does he go to many late parties?”
“When they happen. It’s hard to say. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. I find it hard to keep track.”
I think about Matilda. No chance will I let her go to parties on her own like that in the future. No chance at all.
Madeleine continues. “We got up late on Sunday. I made roast chicken. Then we took James to London Bridge and dropped him off. After we came home, Edwin said he wanted to talk to me. He told me he was leaving me.”
My hand swerves across the page. This isn’t what I’d expected. I open my mouth to ask a question but she keeps on talking.
“I drank most of a bottle of gin and then I blacked out. I came to when our cleaner started screaming. When I looked up I saw Edwin, dead, and the knife at my feet.” Her voice is so quiet now I can barely hear it. “I didn’t mean to do it. I don’t remember doing it. I’m sorry…”
Madeleine is pale but as she reaches the end there’s a dull flush on her cheeks.
“Tell me a bit about James,” I say. Softly, softly—I figure this will be an easier way in before I address her relationship with Edwin.
Her flush subsides and her face relaxes. “What do you want to know?”
“What he’s like? How does he like school, for example? How long has he been boarding?”
“This is his second year. He went there just before he turned thirteen. He says he loves it.”
“Do you find it hard, having him away?”
“It was to start with. But you get used to it. It would be such a waste of his time, having to travel to and from school every day. He’d have been coming home so late, you know. He does so much sport…It wasn’t that I didn’t want him around. Edwin thought…” Madeleine’s voice trails off.
“Edwin thought what?” I speak quietly, trying not to scare her off.
“Edwin thought it would be very good for him, that he’d learn to stand on his own feet. And Edwin thought that maybe I did too much for James and that he needed to learn how to look after himself a bit more.”
“Did you agree with Edwin?”
Madeleine pulls her shoulders back at the question, her chin jutting forward. “Of course I agreed with him. He was quite right. He knows about boys…Knew.”
“Okay. You said James loves it. What is it he particularly enjoys?”
“Well, the sport, definitely. And there’s a lot of routine. James likes routine. He was always happiest when we were all in order, when I was being calm and dinner was ready in time, that kind of thing.”
I take a note. “Were there times you weren’t calm?”
“No one’s calm all the time. And things could get a bit on top of me…” Madeleine’s hands claw tightly at each other. “That was another reason why Edwin thought it was better for James to board. It would give me more time to get everything done, so that we could really enjoy it when we were all together.”
I note down her answer. “How did you feel about that?”
“Again, Edwin was probably right. I’m always so busy—it’s really hard to keep everything together.” Her voice is shaky.
“What are you busy at? What do you do?” I keep my voice neutral.
“Between the gym and Pilates and all the fundraising for the gallery…I don’t want to let myself go. Edwin wouldn’t…” Again her voice trails off.
I pull at the waistband of my skirt, uncomfortably aware of the way it’s digging into my side. Not enough time for Pilates, that’s clearly the problem with my own marriage.
I read through my notes again. Time to go in harder. “Madeleine, what can you tell me about your relationship with Edwin prior to the weekend of his death?”
“What about our relationship?”
“How you got on with each other. Did you spend a lot of time with each other? Did he travel a lot? That kind of thing.”
“Of course he traveled. He was in New York every week.”
“Every week? That seems a lot,” I said.
“Maybe you don’t know many people in the City? It’s perfectly normal for that kind of job.” She’s drawn herself up to her full height, her voice cold.
I pull the collar closer on my Hobbs suit against the chill. It might not be couture but at least I paid for it myself. It’s the first flash of steel I’ve seen from Madeleine, and an image comes into my mind of her standing, knife in hand, over the lifeless body of her husband. Then she sighs and slumps her shoulders and the image leaves me.
“What did you do when he was away?” I ask.
“The same. I’ve already told you. I’ve been arranging a dinner for the gallery—it’s been a lot of work,” Madeleine replies.
“Which gallery?”
“The Fitzherbert in Chelsea. They don’t get nearly so much funding from the government now so they really rely on private donors. It’s very important work.” Madeleine was flushed again.
“Not interested in people charities then?” I say, unable to resist.
Patrick interrupts again. “I’m not sure I see the relevance of this.”
I smile at him, at Madeleine. “Just trying to get a full picture, that’s all. Madeleine, prior to this weekend, would you say that you and Edwin had a good relationship?”
“I thought so. That’s why I was so shocked when he said he wanted a divorce.” Madeleine looks at her hands again, twisting round and round in her lap.
“Why do you think he did?”
“I just don’t know.” Her hands go back over her face, her head hunching down between her shoulders. She starts to sob.
I want to ask whether Edwin was having an affair but she keeps weeping, the sobs become louder and more visceral, great tearing sounds from her gut.
“And now he’s dead and I’m never going to know if he meant it or if I could have made it all right. It’s all my fault it’s all my fault it’s all…”
Even Patrick looks uncomfortable, edging from side to side in his chair. I think he’s going to put an arm round her but instead he starts straightening the papers from the file, rearranging Post-it notes and keeping his head firmly down. Madeleine’s sister comes rushing in, without knocking.
“You need to leave now. It’s too much for her,” Francine says.
“We do have a few more questions…” I say it as more of a comment than a question, pretty sure that she’ll make us leave.
“I don’t care. You can ask them another time. She’s had enough for now.”
I put my notebook back in my handbag and get to my feet. Patrick does the same.